The following days blur into preparation.
Phone calls. Guest lists. Venue coordination. Zachary and I work side by side at the penthouse dining table, laptops open, documents spread across mahogany like a battle plan.
He handles logistics with terrifying efficiency while I learn to speak the language of charity galas—who to seat next to whom, which donors need personal attention, which board members might cause scenes if placed too close together.
Jake stays nearby. Reading in the living room. Making coffee I don't ask for but always need. Watching without unnecessary comments.
I'm grateful for his presence. For the way he gives me space to work while still anchoring me to what's real.
Every few hours, I look up from spreadsheets and find his eyes already on me—steady, patient, mine. The connection grounds me when Manhattan threatens to swallow me whole.
"The caterer confirmed." Zachary marks something on his tablet. "And Victoria Snyder's office called—she'll attend."
"Good. We need her." I massage my temples, fighting the headache building behind my eyes. "What about—"
Maria appears in the doorway. Her expression is strange. Careful in a way that makes my stomach tighten.
"Miss Adison." She hesitates. "There's a visitor."
"Who?" I have an unpleasant feeling coming over me.
"Charles Pemberton."
The name lands like a stone in still water. Ripples spreading outward, disturbing everything.
Jake is on his feet before I can process the information. His body language shifts from relaxed to predatory in the space of a heartbeat.
"Have him shown to my father's study," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "I'll meet him there."
"You're not going alone." Jake's voice is low. Dangerous. "Not with that man."
"Jake—"
"No." He crosses to me, positioning himself between me and the door like a barrier. "I don't trust him. Don't know why he's here. You will not be alone with him."
"This is my father's house." I stand, matching his intensity. "I can handle a conversation."
"He's your ex-fiancé who showed up unannounced while you're vulnerable." His jaw is granite. "I'm not leaving you alone with him."
"If you burst in there, it creates exactly the kind of scene we're trying to avoid—"
Zachary clears his throat. We both turn toward him, breathing hard, the argument suspended mid-collision.
"Perhaps a compromise." His tone is diplomatic. Measured. "Mr. Sullivan could remain just here. Not far from outside the study. Close enough to intervene if necessary. Far enough to allow Miss Ward her privacy."
The suggestion satisfies no one. I see it in Jake's rigid shoulders. Feel it in my own chest.
But it's the best option we have.
"Fine." Jake's agreement comes out clipped. "But if I hear anything wrong—"
"You won't." I squeeze his arm once, brief and hidden. "I'll be fine."
And so, with a heavy heart, I went to my father's study to meet my former nightmare. Although Charles himself was not a nightmare, he was simply uninterested in my happiness.
The study feels different with Charles sitting in the leather chair across from my father's desk. Smaller somehow. Contaminated by his presence.
He looks the same—polished, handsome, every hair precisely placed. The governor's son, groomed for power, wearing his ambition like cologne.
"Adison." He rises when I enter, expression arranged into something resembling concern. "I heard about Richard. I'm so sorry."
"Thank you." I settle behind the desk. Power position. My father's chair. "It's been difficult."
"Of course. If there's anything I can do—"
"That's kind." The words taste like nothing. "I appreciate you stopping by."
He doesn't leave. Instead, he settles back into his chair, crossing one ankle over his knee. Getting comfortable.
"There's something else." His smile shifts. Sharper now. Triumphant. "I thought you should hear it from me before the papers get hold of it."
I wait. Say nothing.
"I've moved on." He delivers the words like presenting a trophy. "Her name is Lucia Bell. Juliana Bell's daughter."
The board member who watched me silently through the entire shareholders meeting. Her daughter is now dating my ex-fiancé.
I suppress the urge to laugh.
Charles is watching my face, clearly expecting devastation. Tears, maybe. Jealousy. Some confirmation that losing him destroyed me.
Instead, I feel nothing but vague relief that I escaped this man before it was too late.
"I'm happy for you." My voice is steady. Genuine. "Truly. Now, if you'll excuse me, the gala preparations require my attention."
I stand. Begin moving toward the door, guiding him with body language toward the exit.
He moves faster than I anticipate. And for some reason, it scares the hell out of me for a second.
Suddenly my back is against the wall, his body pinning mine before I can process what's happening. His hands bracket my shoulders, trapping me in place.
"Did you miss me?" His breath is hot against my face. "Something's different about you, Adison. You look hotter now. Less like Richard's quiet daughter."
"Charles, stop—" I push against his chest. He doesn't budge.
He's stronger than I remember. Or maybe I never tested his strength before. Never had reason to.
"I think Texas agreed with you." His mouth curves into something predatory. "All that manual labor. Getting your hands dirty."
"Let me go." My voice comes out smaller than I want. "Now."
He doesn't listen.
His mouth finds mine—forceful, unwanted, tasting like entitlement and violation. His hands are everywhere they shouldn't be, grabbing, groping, taking what I never offered.
"Maybe Marcus knew more about you than I did, and I should have tried something dirtier with you." And he's kissing me by force again.
Panic floods my chest.
I can't breathe. Can't scream. Can't think past the terror clawing up my throat.
This is happening. Again. Another man who won't take no for an answer, who sees my body as territory to claim, who—
I can't—